


it always means something, it has to

by Bolomapa, pagnilagni



Series: AU [12]
Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: 75 Dates In The Skam Universe, First Dates, M/M, apple picking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-10-10 10:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bolomapa/pseuds/Bolomapa, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagnilagni/pseuds/pagnilagni
Summary: He is standing outside on the overgrown grass, looking towards the apple trees. They are old and crooked, with too many branches, they are too close together under the dense treetops, weighed down by huge clusters of red apples. They should be thinned, said the neighbour, and the trees should be cut back, he said this just a few weeks after cutting back his own trees. “But it is too late now, the sap is rising, the tree will bleed to death. You have to do it next year," he had told him, giving him a fatherly pat on the shoulder.He looks at the apple trees with ripe fruits. Quite a lot of apples fell down last night, more than yesterday, he should pick them up now, he absolutely should. But what should he do with them, he asks himself, noting that the lump in his stomach is getting larger because he doesn’t have an answer, he has no clue. A kilogram of apples is fine, maybe two, he can use them to make apple cake, but all this, this must be hundreds of kilos, what the hell do you do with that?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [det betyr jo alltid noe, det gjør jo det](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20194447) by [pagnilagni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagnilagni/pseuds/pagnilagni). 

> This is the English translation of pagni's contribution to the "75 dates in the Skam universe" collection. The original story was written in Norwegian by pagnilagni, but Bolomapa provided the translation of it and it was only fair to list her as co-author on this piece. Thanks for your contribution!

Fuck.

He is standing outside on the overgrown grass, looking towards the apple trees. They are old and crooked, with too many branches, they are too close together under the dense treetops, weighed down by huge clusters of red apples. They should be thinned, said the neighbour, and the trees should be cut back, he said this just a few weeks after cutting back his own trees. “But it is too late now, the sap is rising, the tree will bleed to death. You have to do it next year," he had told him, giving him a fatherly pat on the shoulder.

It is the closest thing he gets to having a father for now, at least physically. His father left many years ago, he couldn’t stand it anymore. It’s just him and his mother now, his sister is abroad who knows where, studying who knows what, certainly having lots of free time to hang out with those beautiful friends of hers. She gets a Christmas card from them, and a present, while he has received a gift card by email in recent years, “so I can save money on the postage”. Yeah, whatever.

The morning is warm, the summer has been around longer this year, even if it has been moving towards fall for some time now. The long grass is wet with dew, some hours later a clammy dampness will be over the garden, now it only leaves some dark spots at the bottom of the jeans as he walks through the damp straws. The garden extends around the old wooden house, one of the oldest around, a typical villa, two floors, a loft, a cold cellar, light blue with white gables, many say it reminds them of Pippi Longstocking’s Villa Villekulla, just in different colors.

He looks at the apple trees with ripe fruits. Quite a lot of apples fell down last night, more than yesterday, he should pick them up now, he absolutely should. But what should he do with them, he asks himself, noting that the lump in his stomach is getting larger because he doesn’t have an answer, he has no clue. A kilogram of apples is fine, maybe two, he can use them to make apple cake, but all this, this must be hundreds of kilos, what the hell do you do with that?

He picks up an apple from the ground, studies it. He ensures that it doesn’t have brown spots of decay or holes left by insects, before taking a bite. The sweet taste explodes in his mouth, the pulp is white with a pink layer between the red skin and the white. He sighs and bends down to pick up more apples, maybe he can put them in a bowl in the kitchen and take some with him to university. Maybe he can bring some to share with his friends. With a sigh he realizes that friends was something he had in high school, but not anymore. They are gone, scattered in all directions. 

Nevertheless he puts the apples into his t-shirt, holding tight to the bottom hem and making a bag out of it. He can still bring them to university, so he doesn’t have to prepare a packed lunch, after all apples are healthy. And maybe he can make apple cake tonight, although he knows that this is wishful thinking, he is not going to have time for that.

Fuck.

One glance at his wrist reveals that it’s getting too late again, he has to hurry up to make it to the lecture. He runs through the long grass, he has to mow it, and he has to cut back the bushes next to the stairs, soon the leaves will fall down and he has to sweep them up, the paint on the house crumbles off, it should have been painted last year, this is also what the neighbour said, and all the snails in the garden were spreading over to the neighbour, they sent him disapproving looks while setting up small fences made up of broken tiles in order to keep the snails out of their pretty gardens. He closes his eyes for a moment to chase the thoughts away, before rushing into the house and moving the apples from his t-shirt into a cap in the hallway, he also puts some into the backpack and shouts a curt “Bye” into the house without waiting for an answer. Then he throws himself onto the bike and pedals quickly towards the campus.

He has lectures all day long, it’s 4 p.m. before he can finally sit down and work on the coursework he has to hand in in three days. There is too little time for everything, for his mother, for school, for the house, the garden. He sleeps badly, his eyes feel like sandpaper when he wakes up, when he goes to class, when he comes home, and his body is heavy, as if there was nothing he would rather do but to fall down on the bed and pull the covers up. Until he actually does that - then it is as if his eyes are forced open when he tries to close them, and all his body wants to do is tossing and turning as much as possible. 

He sighs and takes an apple from his backpack, cursing silently as his hand gets sticky with sweet drops. He empties the backpack, thankfully it’s only a folder that left a dent in the apple, the books are not ruined, nor the PC. Irritated he rams his teeth into the apple and feels the sweet juice run over his chin. Bloody apple.

He stops by the shop on the way home, buying bread, milk, spread, vegetables, noodles, some pre-cooked meals for his mother when she is hungry, he makes sure to choose something he also likes in case she doesn’t want them. Sometimes she only eats bread. While he juggles to unlock the bike without dropping the shopping bag with all the food, he lays eyes on a notice on the board above the bicycle rack. “Do you have an old apple garden? We’d like to have the apples.” Spontaneously, he takes the piece of paper with the number with him, it’s nice to have, worst case he won’t get an answer or they don’t want the apples after all. 

He finds the piece of paper in his jeans pocket when he empties it before laundry, he forgot about the entire apple thing. He shrugs. Well, he can simply send a message, can’t he? _“Hi, we have some apple trees with a huge amount of apples right now. At Grefsen.” _

He gets an answer almost instantly. _“Cool. Can I come by tomorrow?”_

He sighs. He has a class at 9 a.m. and will be busy all day, but he can just suggest an earlier time and see if the other one is serious enough to show up. _“Can you come before half past eight tomorrow morning?”_

Annoyed he notes that he doesn't get a response as quickly now. He has probably scared away the other one, he thinks, looking absent-mindedly for the number in the telephone book while he waits, but it is not listed there. He goes to bed, trying to coax his eyes into not staying open and his body to relax. 

For the first time in weeks, he actually sleeps through the whole night. He is slightly surprised that it’s already over half past seven when he wakes up, it takes him a moment to realize that it wasn’t the alarm clock that woke him, but the persistent sound of the doorbell.

Fuck.

He stumbles out of the room while putting on some sweatpants. He doesn’t want his mother to wake up and get stressed, but she is usually fast asleep at this hour. Running down the stairs he nearly falls over the edge of the carpet and can just keep himself from crashing against the door. 

On the stairs outside there is a revelation. A tall, blond man with disheveled hair, black cap, white t-shirt, khaki shorts. He has a pile of big plastic baskets next to him. When he opens the door, the man flinches. His eyes, which were staring impatiently at the windows on the second floor, now peer at him, going quickly up and down over his body before resting on his face.  
His eyes are blue. A glittering, sparkling, scintillating blue. They look at him, slightly confused, and he frowns. “Is that you with the apples?” he asks.  
“Yes?” He rubs his eyes. “Eh. They are outside here. Down in the garden. The apple trees.” 

His voice feels raspy, these are the first words he says that day, if someone asks him later about that, if a newspaper or the university magazine asks such a question, what was the first thing you said today, he well definitely know what to answer.

“Yes, I’ve seen them. You have many apples," the other one smiles. “I’m just a little surprised. To see you.”  
“To see me?”  
“Yes.” His eyes beam at him, he can make out a smile. “I had expected an old lady.”  
“An old lady? What? You’ve got some nerve!” he blurts out.  
The other one shakes his head and smiles sincerely now. “Most of them are. I mean those whose apples I pick. Old ladies in old houses.” He looks up at the muntin windows. “Not young men in old houses," he says, winking emphatically.  
“This is not my house," he mutters.  
“Eh.” The man frowns, the confident look vanishes. “Are you renting here? I won’t pick the apples if this is not...”  
“No.” He giggles. “This is my mother’s house. I live here.”  
“Well...” The man stays quietly on the stairs in front of him.  
“Yes?”  
“So this means that this is okay? Can I pick the apples?”  
“Yeah, of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t have sent you the message," he says slightly irritated. “What are you doing with the apples, by the way?” he adds in a softer voice. 

The man smiles so that his eyes nearly vanish beneath all his laugh wrinkles, it is as if he builds himself up in front of him, growing proud, strong and slender. 

For a moment he wonders which he likes best, the eyes or this smile, radiant, broad, genuine, surrounded by red lips. 

“I use some of them for making apple cakes, which I give to organizations that hand them to people in need of a cheer-up. The old, sick, poor. And the rest goes to a fruit press, they buy apples from me and this is how I can finance the baking," he laughs.  
“Wow. Cool.” He nods appreciatively. “Just pick as many apples as you like," he adds. “Shit. I have to run. Have to go to my lecture. Do you do something else apart from picking apples?” he suddenly asks the other one. He actually doesn’t know why.  
The man shrugs without looking at his face.  
He doesn't have time to think about it now, he really has to hurry to get to his lecture. 

He hardly makes it to the lecture on time. The material feels superficial and unimportant, when the lecture is over he doesn't remember what it was about. The only thing he does remember are the blue eye which occupied his thoughts all the time. 

Fuck.

He doesn't know his name.  
And he has no excuse for finding out. 

On his way home he realizes that he would have liked to keep some of the apples for himself. He feels like making apple cake, the spongy base with soft apple pieces, cinnamon, cardamom, crispy sugar which gets sticky after a couple of days in the fridge. He could have called him and asked him to leave some apples, but it’s too late for that now. 

The apple trees are empty when he comes home. The bundles of red apples on the branches are gone, the apples that were lying on the ground have been picked up, leaves and small twigs are swept together in a neat heap. It looks as if no one has been there, the trees are just empty now.

And then he sees it.

There is a red basket on the stairs, half full with apples. A piece of paper, ripped off somewhere, is on the top, stuck below an apple. It is a drawing. More precisely, two comic strips, on the first one there is a person on a ladder next to a tree, and then the person has fallen down and is lying on the floor. The second drawing bears the caption “In a parallel universe…”, the first picture is the same, but in the second one the man is caught up by someone else when he falls from the tree.

He shivers when he looks at the drawing, glancing around for signs of an accident, blood, an ambulance, anything. Then he discovers the text at the bottom of the sheet. 

_“Don’t worry, everything went well. Thanks for the apples :-) -Even” _

Even. He is called Even. The blue eyes have got a name. Even.

He slides the sheet into the first book he finds in his backpack, before he carries the apple basket inside. It is heavy, there are too many apples, he thinks. He kicks the door shut, it bangs louder than he expected. Fuck, he hopes he didn’t disturb his mother.

“Isak, is that you?” Her voice comes from the living room. It is thin but at the same time forceful.  
He goes in to her. “Hi, Mom. How are you?” he asks her.  
She looks at him, her expression is empty. “Fine, I guess. I am a bit tired. Could you help me up?” she asks dimly.  
“Of course.”

He helps her up the stairs and into the bed. The room is a bit stuffy, so he opens the window to let some fresh air in. He looks down at the garden, the empty apple trees. He feels a bit lighter now, the apples are harvested, one thing less to remember, one thing less to feel bad about, now he only has to remember to cut back the trees a bit later in the fall. Maybe he can ask Even to come and pick apples again next year. 

“There was a man in the garden today," she suddenly says. He turns towards her and opens his mouth to say something. 

She looks steadily at him and shakes her head. “I am completely sure. He was young, about your age, I guess. He picked apples.” Her voice is strong and clear.

He nods. “I talked to him. He wanted to pick apples here. Was it okay?”  
“Of course, Isak! Come here!”

He goes over to her bed, she takes his hand and draws him down to the mattress towards her before she takes his other hand as well. “My Isak. I am so grateful for everything you do, that you can cope with all that and take care of me, take care of the house. I know it is a lot for you, too much, but that you are doing this, this is so…” He sees the tears glittering in her eyes when he puts his arms around her and hugs her tightly. 

She is frail, much smaller than before, thin arms, not the strong mother he remembers from when he was a young boy and ran giggling through the park to get away from the suncream she was about to put on him. “Mom, I love you," he whispers to her, pulling her up to him.

He doesn't make apple cake when he comes down. It is too late, too strenuous to wash the apples, remove the core, cut them into pieces, make the batter, put the cake into the oven. Instead he enjoys the apple’s sweetness as it explodes on his tongue when he bites into it while relaxing with Netflix.

Every day is the same. In the morning he plans to make apple cake, but in the evening he is too tired. At least he is eating the apples, every day he brings some with him to university. But he never remembers to ask Even to come and get his basket.

After one week he can even see the bottom of the basket when he gets ready to leave in the morning, spots of red plastic between the red apples, a different shade, thin, dry, crumpled apple leaves. He sighs when he realizes that he is not going to make apple cake with the remaining apples tonight either. 

He notices the smell immediately when he enters the house that evening. The warm smell of baked apples, roasted sugar, butter, spices. The smell that penetrates everything and renders it completely impossible to make apple cake in secret. 

“Mom?” he asks as he walks inside.  
“Isak!” she answers from the living room. She is sitting in her armchair, as usual, next to the window, the chair faces the room and the door, while the curtains are drawn, as usual. On the small table next to her there is a plate with a half-eaten piece of apple cake and a yellow-white pond of molten ice or cream.  
“Have you baked?” His question comes spontaneously, he knows that his disbelief shines through.  
She smiles at him. “No, not me.”  
He looks skeptically at her and frowns. “Who else?”  
“The handsome man was at the door today. He said he wanted to pick up his basket, and when he saw that there were still apples left, he asked whether he could make apple cake out of them.”  
“Oh my god, Mom, you let a stranger into the house?”  
“Calm down, Isak. He is nice.”  
“How do you know that?”  
“He is really nice. I can feel it.” She puts her hand on her chest, before her face gets a serious streak. “He is not like the others. He is a good man, Isak.” She squeezes his hand. “And he makes good coffee," she smiles, nodding towards her cup. 

Isak looks around in the living room. He feels his pulse rise. It doesn’t seem like anything was touched, his mother’s small silver figurines are on the shelf, the old books are there, the TV as well, of course, he is not sure if there is anything of value left in this house. “Mom, were you sitting here the whole time he was here?” he asks, and she nods confused. 

He rushes up to his room. It looks just as he had left it, the curtains are drawn, the bed is unmade, the clothes are scattered around the floor, he should have washed them, he thinks, there has just been no time. It is impossible to tell if someone has been there. He checks his mother’s room, feeling a cold wave rush through him as he sees that her medicine drawer is empty, before realizing that he filled the last pills from the package into her pill box this morning, he has to remember to get more at the pharmacy. One more thing to remember. 

In the medicine cabinet in the bathroom there are the packages with band-aids, a pack of Tylenol, a box of stronger painkillers, it rattles when he moves it, the box is nearly empty. His Valium is also there, it should be somewhere else, not in the joint cabinet. But it looks as if everything is there.

Then he goes down into the kitchen. It is tidy, tidier than when he left, he notices, this morning’s coffee cup is no longer on the bench. He usually puts it there so he can use it again later in the day, he sees no reason for washing it up after every single use. Sometimes he uses it several times in a row and has to get the brush to wipe away the brown coffee rings sticking to the sides.

Now the bench is empty, apart from a bowl with red apples and a tray covered with a towel.

He lifts the towel and draws in the smell, it is warmer, sweeter, more intense, more seasoned than the smell he noted from the corridor. A triangle is cut from the cake, maybe a quarter of if, a little bit less than that, he is surprised that his mother has eaten that much. He takes a plate and cuts a slice, balancing it over to the white plate, he gets some ice cream from the freezer and sinks down on the sofa. He looks at the cake and smiles, the soft taste in his mouth is relaxing and makes him forget what he was supposed to do, school work, chores, what was that again, spices, apples, ice cream, they remind him of cakes he has eaten before, family visits, grandma, care and company.

And then he remembers it. He looks around. The red basket is gone. 

Fuck. 

Of course. He swallows silently. ”Mom? Did he take the basket with him? The red plastic basket?”  
“Yes, I guess so?” Her voice tensions. “Shouldn’t he have? Wasn’t it his basket?”  
“Yeah, it was his," he answers soothingly.

But he wishes the guy had left something. Something more than a sheet of paper, whose corners have become jagged after he has been taking it out of his book in the reading room every single day this week. 

A few days later he walks around in the garden. He tries to find out which trees and bushes he could or should or must cut back, he read about this yesterday on some gardening websites but they all contradict each other. Some say winter, some late summer, others whenever. He wants to listen to the whenever-group, but according to the other experts they are so wrong that the trees will apparently die instantly if he dares to cut them now. Or in one month. 

He stumbles on something, for an annoyed moment he thinks that Even should have tidied up better after him, broken branches that lie around like this are really dangerous. He looks down, and realizes that it is not a branch which is lying there, but a cap, the black cap Even was wearing when he came to harvest the apples. Isak bends down to pick it up. It is damp, slightly dirty, but none of the spots seem to be impossible to remove, he just has to bring it inside and wash it, he thinks. He lifts the cap up towards his face, moving it instinctively towards his nose, again instinctively drawing in Even’s smell, as the earthy scent of grass and fall meets his senses. 

He tries to wash it. 

He is standing in the bathroom, sliding his fingers over the cap, feeling the hard brim against his fingertips, the softer edge, the metal buckle to draw it tight at the nape. He smiles every time he sees the apple logo on it. 

He simply can’t bring himself to pour water into the sink, add detergent, put the cap in, let it get soaked with the liquid and the smell of the detergent, rinsing it afterwards.  
Instead he puts it on his desk, he is going to send a message to Even, letting him know that his cap is here, maybe he can come and get it when Isak is at home.

It is Thursday. If he waits until tomorrow to message him Even might not be able to come before the weekend, when Isak will be at home all the time. Or maybe Even only works on weekdays and to pick up the cap means work for him, so that he is only going to do it on a weekday anyway, during normal working hours, when Isak is at the university.

Oh damn it. 

_“You forgot your cap here. It is in the hallway...”_  
_“I have found your cap in the garden. Wanna have it back?”_  
_“Do you want to come and get the cap you forgot here?”_  
_“Join me for a cup of coffee and pick up your cap?”_ He deletes that one right away, instantly feeling his heart beat stronger, afraid he might press the wrong button and send it instead.  
_“Hi. Your cap is here, I’m at home on the weekend if you want to pick it up.” _

Just as he sends it, he realizes that he forgot to write down his name. Even certainly hasn’t have saved his number in the contact list, so he won’t know where the message comes from, he thinks.  
_“This is Isak, by the way :-)"_ he adds and in the same second as he sends this, he already receives a new message, from Even: _“Thanks Isak. I’ll come by on Saturday, is that okay?”_

There is a tickling feeling in his stomach when it goes up for him that Even must have seen right away that the message was from him.  
His mobile beeps again. _“This is Even, by the way ;-)” _

He feels his face heat up. Fuck. 

Saturday feels like syrup, the hours drag on and on, hours, minutes, seconds, it feels as if there are infinitely many of them, even if he knows there are only 24 hours, 1440 minutes, 86400 seconds in this one day.

There is so much he should be doing. The pharmacy, the shop, grocery shopping for the next week, his mother wants him to come with her to buy a new jacket, he can just wait outside the shop, she assures him, but it will be so much easier if he is there with her.

She agrees to leave early, he motivates it with the traffic, which is better early in the day, neither of them like a lot of traffic. He drives down to the mall, she grabs a jacket, they go to the pharmacy, he takes care of the groceries while she has a cup of coffee, she is pale and looks around nervously, when he rushes back to her juggling the two shopping bags. It is not enough for the whole week, he will have to do more shopping later, but he just didn’t manage to think of the dinner menu for every day, it will be pizza from the fridge tonight, salmon tomorrow, pasta with beef sauce, fish fingers, maybe there is also something left in the freezer. 

He can only breathe more calmly once they finally get home half past eleven. He sincerely hopes that Even hasn’t been here yet, hasn’t been here and left again. Maybe he has come to the conclusion that the cap is not worth it, he can just buy a new one instead of wasting so much time on that old, dirty cap, the one which smells of earth and fall, but also a tiny bit of something else, something Isak can’t put words on, it feels so unknown and at the same time so right.

The sound of the doorbell echoes through the room. The chiming reverberates in his bones, vibrates in his ears, tickles his stomach and makes him nearly feel sick.


	2. Chapter 2

Isak takes a deep breath and stands up. He walks to the kitchen window, from which he can look outside. He knows that if he stands just to the left of the window he can see the front stairs without moving the curtains, without the person outside suspecting that they are being watched. 

It is him. He is standing with his hands in the pockets of his dark gray jeans, his white t-shirt, tousled hair. He looks a bit impatient, moving from side to side while balancing back and forth on the balls of his feet. 

A bicycle is parked on the gravel next to the stairs, a black men’s bike, several years old, many gears. It shows rusted spots on the handlebars, the rims are gray with old dirt, but the chain looks recently oiled and the cable conduits are new, the plastic shining bright against the dull varnish. Cycle bags are hanging limp on both sides of the luggage racks, looking empty.

He breathes deeply one more time while taking the few steps from the kitchen to the hallway. From the corner of his eyes he can see the curtains blow vaguely with the slight draft coming from the hallway. The doorbell rings again, making him shudder. The sharp noise resonates in his bones, drowning the soft tickling in his stomach and replacing it with a high pulse that persists even as the chiming abates. He fumbles at the lock with imprecise movements, hardly managing to turn it around, press down the handle and draw the door towards himself, it feels as if his body distorts these simple and well-known moves, turning them into a row of complex actions almost impossible to execute correctly.

Finally the door is open. Even straightens and looks at him with those blue eyes for an infinitely long fraction of a second, before his face lights up in a big smile, his eyes vanish beneath the wrinkles, but it doesn’t matter.

“Hello,” he says and looks at Isak.

“Hi.” Isak stands there spellbound. His brain is blasted, wiped off like a clean slate, a blackboard on campus at a quarter past eight in the morning. He has no plan, doesn’t remember what he wanted to say, why Even is here after all. He shakes his head and laughs, trying to put the thoughts in the right places, understand what is going on. 

“Eh… do you want to come in?” he asks in the same moment as Even opens his mouth and in his deep voice asks about the cap.  
“Sorry, but I have to go on. The apple harvest is in full swing and I have too many more apples to pick,” he says.

There is a hint of regret in his voice. Isak thinks he looks tired, with dark rings under the eyes, a bit weary and fallen apart, not the splendid appearance he recalled from the first time they met.  
“Need some help?” he asks.  
Even’s face lights up. “Are you serious about that?”  
Isak shrugs. “Yes, I guess I can help.”  
“Great! I have an appointment in a garden a little bit further down the road,” he says.

Fuck.

He can’t pick apples. He is awfully bad at it, can’t cope with the height, hates climbing trees, he always just picked up the apples that had fallen down, with his mother taking care of the rest, or this father when he still lived there. In recent years no one had bothered with the apple harvest, he doesn’t even know whether they have had many or few apples. 

“A little bit further down the road” turns out to be just under Grefsenkollen. Isak is out of breath and his thighs shiver, as Even finally stirs the bike towards a courtyard. He looks up to the house which is situated at the top of a staircase from the yard. “I hope they are at home,” he mumbles and looks at Isak. “I’ll go up and check, just wait here,” he says with a glint in his eyes that is reminiscent of a smile.

He jumps up the stairs with nimble steps, taking two of the low steps in one go. At the top he stops for a second and looks at Isak with a wink before continuing at a more leisurely pace. A few minutes later he returns and jumps whistling down the stairs. Isak has caught his breath, his body feels okay, he is actually not tired, he thinks. “They are at home, we can harvest,” Even says.

Together they leave their bikes. In the cycle bags Even has harvesting nets and a telescope bar he uses for reaching the highest branches of a tree, he explains. “I have been here before for harvesting, they have both a wooden ladder and a step ladder, so I don’t need to bring that,” he tells Isak. “And they only have a couple of trees, so this will be quick!”

Isak hadn’t even thought about how Even had picked the apples at his place, that he would have brought the huge baskets and a long ladder with him. He gets a bad conscience, after all they have both a wooden ladder and a step ladder at home. “Did you bring the ladder on your bike when you came to us?” he asks.

Even shakes his head. “No, I often use my parents’ car. But I really love cycling as well. To feel the air in your face, to have your hair blown black… When I let go of the handlebars and lean back, it feels like flying!” He gets a dreamy streak on his face.

Isak shivers. “Ugh. And you don’t even wear a helmet,” he says.  
“No, I don’t.” He shrugs. “But let’s get going, shall we start picking apples? Who is first at the trees?” He points towards the house, behind which Isak can glean some treetops.

He starts running up the stairs and Isak follows a couple of seconds later, already regretting it after a few steps, before reaching the top of the staircase his thighs ache and it feels as if he had climbed a thousand stairs. Or what he thinks climbing a thousand stairs must feel like. He looks at the trees in the distance, infinitely far away, but he clenches his teeth and decides to do it.

Then his feet suddenly bend and he stumbles. He knows he is losing his balance, knows he will be falling down within a second, knows that his palms will meet the ground, followed by his knees, his legs, his elbows, his belly, his chest, his head.

Fuck.

Thankfully, it is grass, not tarmac, not stone, not sharp gravel. Only grass. Green grass which will leave green stains on his pants, damp earthy stains with clear green stripes in between.

“Shit, are you alright?” All of a sudden Even is next to him, a worried look on his face. He stretches out his hand to Isak. As Isak grips it, it feels like an electric shock. He is sure that there is a jolt, there must be a shiver going through him, from his hand through his arm and onwards through his chest, through his whole body. Even keeps a straight face, pulling him up towards him without slipping his hand afterwards, he loosens the grip but doesn’t let go, instead he turns his hand around to examine the palm, carefully stroking a finger across the green stripes. There is a tickling sensation when his fingertips stroke over his skin, the blue eyes are so near when they look at him. “At least you’re not bleeding. You are lucky that there is grass here rather than tarmac.” Then he adds with a teasing grin. “But you were unlucky to fall at all, of course. Were you afraid of losing the race?”

“What? Afraid of losing? Me? Never! I just tripped, there was an edge, you can see it, I fell over it!”  
“Of course.”  
“Let’s do it again. Who’s first at the apple trees.”  
“Okay. Ready, steady, go!”

They set off at the same time, Isak is taking short and quick steps, he is usually fast, but Even has such long legs, he thinks, looking at these damned long legs. Isak gives everything and their hands touch the trunk of the first tree at exactly the same moment. “Fuck, that was tough,” he smirks at Even.

Even is bending over, resting his hands on his knees and panting, without a word.  
“Do you agree or what?” Isak grins and shoves at Even, whose answer is still limited to panting. “Are you not fit, are you in a bad condition?”  
“Fuck you,” Even manages to produce between gritted teeth before starting to laugh. “Okay, you are in a better shape, I see. But are you also better than me at picking apples? Lets pick one tree each and we’ll see who is done first. You can choose your tree first,” he adds.

“No, no, no, this is cheating. How many trees have you already harvested in your life?” asks Isak.  
Even shrugs. “No idea? Fifty? One hundred?”  
“You see? I haven’t harvested a single one.”  
“What? Not one?” Even looks unbelievingly at him. “But you have that cool apple garden?”  
“It was always dad who picked the apples.”  
“And dad is not here now?”  
Isak shakes his head, doesn’t say more.  
“About time you learned to pick apples yourself now.”  
“But I have you!”  
Even laughs at Isak. “You have me, you say?”  
Isak blushes when he realizes what he has just said. “Not like that!” he says, embarrassed with laughter. “Idiot.”  
“No, but I’d love to come back again,” Even says.  
“Do you enjoy picking apples?”  
“I really do. It is incredibly relaxing. I can feel the calmness in my body when I am doing it, when I am standing there and picking, on my own with all the apples, so to speak.”

“On your own with all the apples, this sounds a bit spooky,” Isak laughs. “As if you were alone in the world.”  
“Sometimes it really feels like that,” Even says and looks away.  
“You think so? But we are not alone,” Isak says. “There are certainly other living creatures in the universe, in this infinite space. It would be statistically highly improbable if it was only us here.”  
“Ugh, now this is spooky to think about. I get dizzy.”  
“No, I think this is incredibly exciting!” Isak is eager. Since he was a little boy, he has been fascinated by thinking about infinity, about the universe expanding at a larger speed than it would be physically possible to travel, so it is impossible to keep up with the expansion.

“Ugh.” Even swallows, Isak thinks he looks pale. “But what I like is thinking that everything has a meaning, that everything we do means something for someone else.”  
“The butterfly effect,” Isak nods. “A butterfly in South America can trigger a tsunami at the other end of the world.”

“I didn’t think along such dramatic lines,” Even smiles. “But this is actually the reason why I am doing this. Continuing what someone else has started. Get up, pick apples, deliver them to the juicing place, make apple cake and give them away, I think it means something. Otherwise I wouldn’t do it. I mean, if nobody cared or if nobody were happy about it. If it didn’t mean anything. But it always means something, it has to,” he mutters the last sentence nearly inaudibly. 

Picking apples is a quick and easy thing, like a game, Isak thinks, although it sounds like a cliché. Even uses the ladder to pick apples at the top, while Isak takes care of the windfall on the ground as well as the lowest branches. “We only have one ladder and it’s faster if I use it, I know where it should stand and how high I can reach up,” he explains. Isak just nods approvingly, hoping that Even won’t suggest that they should swap places so that Isak also learns to use the ladder. 

He agrees with Even that picking apples is relaxing. It is a sequence of automatic actions, he obviously doesn’t have to think when picking up the apples from the ground, just bow down, grip the apple, feel the smooth skin against his fingertips, lift it up, put it into the net. This means he can let his thoughts wander to the blue eyes, smooth skin, soft hair and body above himself, what would happen if he fell down, he wonders, would he manage to catch him, would Even land in his arms, would he hold him, soften his fall, draw him against himself, pull him tight?

He flinches when Even suddenly laughs. “What are you thinking about?” From the top of the ladder, three meters above Isak, he looks down to him.  
“Eh, nothing. Just the apples.”  
“Okay.” Even reaches up and grabs an apple, brushing a twig out of his face with an irritated movement.  
“These trees should have been cut back,” he mumbles. “They might be short but they are so damn tight.”  
He spits out a twig.  
“They are… tight?” Isak asks. “Weren’t my trees also like that? The neighbour says so every year, that we should cut them back, but I don’t know anything about that.”  
“He could just have done it for you, couldn’t he?” Even opines.  
“Yes! He could have! It wouldn’t have taken more than half an hour and he has surely done that a hundred times before.”

”I can also do it for you,” Even says quietly.  
“You can?” With a baffled look, Isak glances up to him.  
“Of course. Doesn’t take long. But it will have to wait until later in the fall.”  
“Jeez.” Isak rolls his eyes.  
”What?”  
“Are you also one of them? ‘you have to do that at the right time’,” he apes.  
Even guffaws. ”No, it’s not that bad. But I will still be busy with the harvest for some weeks.”  
“I see.” Isak feels his chins getting warm.  
“But you can do it whenever you want to, anyways.”  
“No, that’s fine, no need to hurry. Later in the fall is okay. Or in the winter.”  
“But then it will be freezing cold on the fingers,” Even smirks.

“What can you actually use apples for? Apart from juice and apple cake and jam?” Isak asks.  
“Breads get so much juicier if you put grated apple on it. And dessert, of course. Apples also go very well with light meat. Actually, you can have apples with every meal. Yeah, and then there is apple cider, of course!”  
“Apple cider?”  
“Yes? Fermented apple juice?”  
“Isn’t this the same as beer?”  
“No, not exactly. Beer is made of grain, cider of fermented fruit juice. It is so delicious!”

Isak furrows his nose. “I’m not that sure, actually,” he says. ”I heard about someone who tried to turn apple juice into beer in his locker at school.”  
“In his locker at school?”  
“Yes, it reeked over the whole school.”  
“Jeez. Doesn’t surprise me. You should in any case use yeast suitable for fruit juice, not yeast for usual beer brewing and definitely not baking yeast! There are many types of yeast you can use, brettanomyces render it more acid, for example, but you can also add lactobacilli, those pills some people take for their stomach, you know. Or some regular beer yeasts, ale yeast, for example. It is important that the yeast is robust because apple juice ferments easily, so the yeast also has to work quickly.” Even’s tirade just pours out of him.”And what is also superimportant is hygiene, everything has to be boiled and disinfected, and the juice should be pasteurized or in any case should the fruits be rinsed in boiling water. Otherwise the cider can be fermented by the yeast which is already on the apples, and we don’t know what will happen then.”

“Yeast on the apples?” Isak looks down at the apple which he is still holding in his hand.  
“There are traces of yeast everywhere!” Even looks around and smirks. ”Different types. So the thing is to make the most of the right yeast then.”

Isak nods. Actually, he doesn’t understand anything. 

He still hasn’t tasted the apples from this garden. They look a bit different than his own, larger, a bit knobbly around the flower. The skin feels greasy, he instinctively wiped his hands on his t-shirt when picking the first apples, intuitively wary of getting something disgusting on his hands, something sticky from an insect, maybe. He rubs the apple against his t-shirt, not sure if this is necessary, but the apple gets polished. 

It tastes sour and fresh. Crushing the crispy pulp between his molars makes creaky noises.  
“Oh my god, what a mess,” he laughs, bending over and trying to keep the sticky juice from getting on his clothes.  
“Yes, this type is a very juicy. They will get loads of apple juice out of them!” Even says.

A drop of juice runs down from the corner of his mouth and Isak uses his little finger to bring it back up to his tongue, feeling the sweet liquid against the tip of his tongue, before he suddenly registers something different, a different taste, as Even’s soft fingertips trace his lower lip. Suddenly, his eyes are so near, they are dark and so close to his own eyes. Even’s finger slides along the edge of his lip, from one corner to the other, meeting the tip of his tongue, giving a taste of salt, apple skin, earth, when he slowly closes his lips. He feels the slick fingernail on his upper lip, the rough skin against his tongue when starting to move it back and forth against the fingertip. 

Everything stands still around him and he cannot hear a single sound, the noises from the cars are far away, the rustling of the trees, the children playing in the distance. He doesn’t know if he is breathing, doesn’t know where he is, he only knows that he exists and that Even is coming closer and closer and that it will happen now.

The wooden planks creak and announce that someone is coming up to them. Jolting, they turn to look towards the house.

“Hello! So well you are doing! You are nearly done!”

A smiling old lady is coming round the corner. Her face is full of wrinkles, but she looks happy as she sees the apple trees nearly empty and the bags full of apples.  
“So lovely that someone wants to have the apples,” she says and there is a sad streak on her face. “My children moved away a long time ago and my grandchildren are always so busy,” she says.

Even steps away from Isak and gives the old lady his most charming smile. “We are very happy to pick the apples so that they are not wasted.”  
“Yes, it was not like this when we were young. We always used to pick them, we used everything and did not allow anything to go to waste,” she mutters and looks up towards the trees. “What do you do with them?”  
“I bake apple cakes and I also deliver apples to a juice making business,” Even explains.  
“Apple cake!” She looks at the sacks of harvested apples. “You don’t think I might...eh,  
I know I have given you the apples, but I was wondering if it might be possible to keep a couple of them to make apple pie?”

“Of course!” Even smiles. “The opposite would be rude! They are your apples, after all.”  
“Well, you have harvested them,” she says while filling her pockets with apples. “But apple pie is a real temptation. Maybe it will even lure my grandchildren here?” she says with a hopeful smile.  
“Yes, I am sure it will,” Even smiles back.

Even loads the apple sacks onto the bags on his bike. They make huge dents at the sides and he has his backpack full of apples, too. The bike teeters when he gets on it and starts pedaling. Isak takes the tools, holding them between his fingers at the handlebars. 

They cycle to a plant center, where they meet with the juice making business in the parking lot to deliver the apples. Even goes first, knowing the way, and Isak follows behind, with his heart jumping in his throat, getting nervous from watching when he sees Even teeter on his bike, first on the sidewalk, but as this get too narrow and bumpy, he moves onto the street, with cars overtaking and honking when he can’t go as fast as they do. 

They deliver the apples quickly and without problems. Even takes the opportunity to catch up with the woman who accepts the apples, a woman of their age with blond hair, who is wearing a washed-out blouse with blue stripes and wide blue pants that doesn’t quite reach down to her dirty sneakers. She speaks in a friendly and slow voice.  
“How are you doing with the wedding preparations?”  
“We are working on it. Table decorations can be quite exhausting.”  
”Everything takes a toll!” Both Even and the woman laugh heartily.  
"How is the husband-to-be?"  
Her face lights up and her voice goes faster than before. “He is planning to expand our apple business. He is going into apple cider now.”  
“Apple cider! Exciting!”  
”He is experimenting with different yeast types, today he is trying out a traditional English cider yeast, I guess. Would you like to have some when he is done?”  
“Sure!”  
“I will tell him to get back to you. Maybe you have some more tips for him,” she laughs.  
“Cool.”

Even’s phone beeps as she settles the bill by instantly transferring the money. He puts the phone into his back pocket, wiping the sweat off his forehead and looking pleased.  
“We are done,” he smiles at Isak.

They stand next to their bikes for a little while. Isak swallows, trying to come up with something to say but his brain feels blank. “Are you going home?”  
“Yes. You as well?”  
“Yeah.”

Silence again. Twilight has closed in upon them, suddenly it feels as if they were invisible in the gray darkness which envelops them like a blanket.

“Well, okay. Bye-bye then.”  
“Bye-bye.”

Even gets on his bike and pedals off. The pedals wheel around freely, then he shifts into a lower gear and uses his strong hamstrings, which are just visible under his shorts, to increase the speed. The tires creak against the gravel on the parking lot, before he turns left onto the street and disappears behind the blocks next to the center. 

Isak fumbles with his bicycle lock, it is hard to turn the small wheels to make them slot into the correct code, the lock feels rusty and rigid before it opens at last. He wraps it around the seat post of his bike and starts pedaling. He swings to the right after the center, passing the small soccer stadium, where the crude yellow lights are switched on and a group of teenagers are playing ball at one end of the pitch. A lonely jogger with a little dog comes running towards him on the path. Isak swings to the side when passing them, the dog pulls on the leash as the jogger slows down, for a moment it feels like the dog wants to follow Isak, before the owner draws it back to continue his jogging trail.

After passing the soccer pitch, the street goes slightly to the right and starts sloping upwards. It becomes harder to pedal, with his legs working hard and his breath going more heavily. It feels as if something was pulling him back, back into the opposite direction further down. On the top of the hill, he stops. He leans over the handlebars, resting his head on his elbows, rubbing his closed eyes, breathing out, hearing his pulse throb in his ears.

Fuck.

He let him go. Fuck.

Suddenly determined, he takes a deep breath before sitting up and gripping the handlebars. He bites himself in the lower lip and turns around, as if he was hoping to find him there, just behind him. But of course he is not there. He breathes out and takes another deep breath before stepping determinedly onto the pedals and turning the bike around, turning it into the direction he came from. He wheels quickly down the hill, starting to pedal again when he reaches the bottom. He continues into the opposite direction from before, meeting the jogger with the dog again, this time it appears more interested in the ball on the pitch than in Isak on his bike.

Down at the plant center everything is quiet. There are just a couple of cars on the dark and otherwise empty parking lot, but nobody to see. With another creaking sound on the gravel, he cycles off again, before the wind and his heartbeat and his wheezing breath drown everything out.

He looks around at the exit. Even went to the left, but there are three possibilities already at the junction fifty meters away, three new possibilities for each of them at every junction along the road, so if he has only passed three junctions, there are already thirty-two different streets he can live on, with ten addresses each, which is a conservative estimate, leading to 320 addresses, perhaps 2000 apartments.

The number by itself makes him shiver. Only to think of calling 2000 strangers and maybe not finding Even in the end, what an egregious thought. He doesn’t know if Even lives there, if he lives at the first or second or third junction, maybe at the fourth or fifth one, maybe further along, or maybe he just had some business in this area but actually lives in the opposite direction. 

Isak has no idea. Still, he turns to the left, again left at the next junction, and cycles through the three branches he meets, before going back to the first junction again, this time going straight ahead and repeating the same procedure before he finally tries out the right one and checks the three possible branches at the next junction.

He doesn’t see Even. Of course not. In case Even lives her, he won’t be out on the street now. He will be inside, in a warm apartment, with the lights on, the jacket hung up in the hallway, maybe he will be in the shower and getting himself warm. Isak, by contrast, is freezing, the autumnal evening chill has invaded and filled up his whole body. He rubs his arms before shaking his head, dejectedly, what is he doing here, he has to get home, take a shower, warm himself up, go to bed, sleep the whole night.

Finally, he cycles home. The way up the hill after passing the soccer pitch feels so long. The team is done with their practice now, the lights are off and there are only shadows on the pitch. Slowly he steps into the pedals, in heavy gear, with long, laborious steps up the hill. His thighs ache, his body feels that it has done physical labor today, both the arms and the back bear the memory of the apple picking movements, reaching out, gripping the apple, then the slightly static movement down again, into the sack on the floor, taking care not to drop the apple, but putting it nicely down on top of the other ones.

The house is dark when he comes home. He can hardly make out the shadows in the garden, the trees are lit up only weakly by the streetlight whose light reaches a bit into the garden. The sky glitters in a dark blue hue above the city, it never gets truly black here, with the city reflecting the light against the sky it is not even black on the darkest days of the year. In the other direction, towards the countryside, it becomes darker but even there the darkness does not swallow all the human reflections.

His legs are heavy, he doesn’t know how long he cycled today, but his legs feel incredibly tired, he hardly manages to lift one leg above the cycle frame, put his foot on the ground, bend his knees a bit so that he can lock the bike, it would be too strenuous to put it into the shed, so it will just have to stay next to the door.

Isak sees the shadow before it moves, sensing that someone is there without actually seeing it. It is a dark lump on the stairs, leaning against the dark doorframe, he has forgotten to change the light bulb of the lamp outside the entrance, he realizes, one more thing to remember. It is nearly as dark here as in the garden, only a tiny bit less because it is a bit closer to the streetlight. 

He stands up in front of Isak, with his eyes now having got used to the darkness he can just make out his face. He gives Isak a bag, it makes a clanking noise when Even puts his hand around Isak’s, the grip of the plastic bag feels damp against his skin. Isak tries to shift his hand to get a better grip of the bag while Even’s fingers lock around his. 

They remain there in silence, so close together that their chests would clash if they breathed at the same rhythm. They take in each other’s breath, their mouths being just a few centimeters apart, if there was light they would be looking into each other’s eyes, blue on green, green on blue, sparkle and glitter, spreading from the eyes into the stomach in a calm stream.

Even bends towards Isak and rubs his nose against him.  
“I thought you had left,” Isak whispers. He senses Even’s lips just in front of his own, wondering how close he is, if he might feel them if he just moves forwards a tiny bit.  
“No, I hadn’t left!” Even laughs. “I just had to go home to grab some apple cider.” He clanks the bag carefully. “You have to taste the real thing,” he says and there is a smile discernible in his voice. The warm breath tickles Isak’s lips, if he wets them with the tip of his tongue now the heat will make them feel cold, but maybe they will meet Even’s lips instead. 

So he does it. He lets the tip of his tongue trace along his lips, softening them, rendering them wetter and colder. He then stretches some millimeters more, twisting his head slightly so that they get even closer, overcoming the distance, kilometers, meters, centimeters, millimeters, he doesn’t know how far it is, other than that it is infinitely far while at the same time it is nearly as close as he can get to Even.

Until he gets even closer and feels his lips against his own. Soft, full lips against his own thinner lips. He feels every nanosecond of this moment, everything happens at the same time, he does not manage to separate the events any more. But it happens, it has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you enjoyed this! There may be a third chapter some time later, just not sure when yet. First I have to finish my summerproject with SophiaSoames, "Life is good and other lies", then we'll see what springs off my mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**1.**

_ He is running and running, trying to get away. _   
_ He is running and running, trying to get closer. _   
_ He is running and running, trying to get away and closer at the same time. _   
_ He is running and running. _   
_ He is running- _

_ He looks at him without seeing him. _   
_ He turns away when he runs to him. _   
_ He doesn't see him. _

_ He just wants him to see him. He just wants him to set his eyes on him, the eyes, the same eyes, he has his eyes. _   
_ He just wants him to turn back to him. He just wants him to turn around to him when he runs past him. _   
_ He just wants him to reach out to him. He just wants him to reach out his hand to him, touch his skin, grab his hand. _   
_ He just wants- _

It is still the same dream, the one that makes him lose his breath. The dream that has been waking him up every night for many years, the dream that you carry with you, just like in the poem, but unlike in the poem, nothing miraculous happens, no heart opens, no doors. Instead it feels like the mountain closes in on him every time. 

At first he runs without stopping, continues running when he is out of breath, so that it feels as if he suffocates, the air vanishes and the darkness envelops him like a dragging weight. He feels himself panic when he doesn't manage to breathe in, nor breathe out, his throat is tight, he twists and turns to get away, out, in, here, there, he no longer knows where he should go or what is going on. 

The soft voice behind him. Arms around his chest, fingers stroking him lightly, warm breath on his cheeks, the smell of night breath, sweat, still the soft hint of shower soap, flower, apple, orchid, he just cannot find the right word for the easily recognizable smell. The eyes that are hidden in the darkness, these green eyes. The voice, the words, “you are not alone”.

One moment he is awake, one moment he is afraid of falling asleep, afraid of what might come, afraid of the fear, but he falls asleep anyway and doesn’t wake up before the next day. 

Once he opens his eyes, he feels the fresh air from the window meet his face. Cold fall air, the brittle roughness which belongs to this season, the cold that makes him shudder, that makes his skin rise in tiny bumps. Instinctively, he draws the blanket up over his chest and shoulders and wraps it tightly around his neck, while turning towards the window and looking out to the flaming red maple tree against the bright blue sky.

He divides the time into a Before and After. 

Before he met her, he was alone.

After he met her, he has still been alone, but they are alone together, and maybe one day they might just be together. One day they might realize that they are not alone, that this kind of loneliness can be put away, can be tossed, because they are just together. He doesn’t know when, it may happen tomorrow, it may never happen. Maybe they will get a nuclear bomb on their heads this afternoon, then it will never happen.

He remembers how it was before. Before he met her, before he understood that he doesn’t have to fix it all alone, before it fell into place inside him, inside them.

His father didn’t want to hear from him any more at the end. He disappointed him time and again. His father tried to mold him, trying to press him into a form he would never have fitted in. When his father realized that, he asked him to leave.

Before his father asked him to leave, he had made him stay. He held him captured in a mold until it didn’t work anymore, he came out of all the edges and could not be brought back into the mold, making him feel like a loser, a worthless creature, a lump which didn’t even fit into the mold that had been made for him.

He could never fit in there. Not with his imperfections, the evilness, the selfishness, the destroyed soul, the wounds, the loss.

It felt like a relief to get out of the mold. Finally free, finally alone.

The dreams started the same night.

They had actually been there all the time, only weaker. He had always been dreaming about him, trying to recreate him in his dreams in the way he wanted him, trying to create a picture of the ideal father, create the care he never had, the love, tenderness, and trust.

He had a vague memory of a warm hand on his cheek, of quiet words whispered into his ear. He wasn’t sure if it was a dream or if it had really happened.

As time went on, the memory faded, it was replaced by a feeling from the dream, the nightmare. The breathlessness, the stifling sensation, the darkness, the pain, the fear, the loneliness, the feeling of waking up alone, in the damp bed, the sheets wrapped around his legs, feeling petrified, gasping for air, trying to get back into the world.

It felt as if the world was beyond him. And the only way he could not lose his foothold would be to continue like the father wanted, just alone.

So he had tried to do it. Tried to continue with the same things, the same studies, tried to fit into the same mold the father wanted him to and that he would never fit in.

But finally he got space anyway, by huddling down with the knees drawn up his stomach, arms around himself, head pressed down on his chest so tightly that he felt he would die again and again.

He fitted in until the mold burst. Until it gave way and could not hold him any longer. Until he fell and fell and didn’t know how to rise ever again.

For some reason or another, there was suddenly a hand, reaching out towards him, grabbing him tightly, the slender fingers, slim, strong, different, grabbing his hand and holding it. Holding until the knuckles went white. Holding until the stinging feeling become nearly unbearable. Holding until he wanted her to let go. Holding although he wanted her to let go.

_ You have got me. Don’t lock me out, let me in. _

She becomes blurry in his eyes when he thinks of how her hands felt. The eternal feeling of the hand that held him, although he wanted her to let go. Her arm around him, her face against his neck, the breath, tears, sobs, her voice that did not want to let go.

He smiles at her. Blinking away the blur and reaching out his hand to put it on her face. His thumb strokes over the soft cheek, her jaws are hard under his fingertips. She blinks, drawing her lips into a smile before looking up at him and drawing him in with her gaze.

Her lips open as his own come closer, one tenth of a second later he can taste them, soft, warm, this special taste, he wishes he could say they tasted like strawberries, apples, something simple and definable, as with her soap. But this is something else, something he doesn’t find words for, complex, unknown and at the same time well-known, so typically her.

Maybe it is like that, he suddenly thinks, maybe it is like that not to be alone. To feel the well-known under his fingertips, on his tongue, to draw her in through his nose, to see her when he closes his eyes, with her heat under himself, and for one moment it feels as if he is not alone.

Maybe it is like that. Maybe he doesn’t have to hold his breath in order not to lose it. Maybe he is ready to take her and she is ready to take him. Maybe this day will be another parting, another after, maybe this will actually be the day when they become one, like a cliché, like in a movie. Maybe they will move together to never drift away from each other again.

“Are you ready?” she says with a soft smile, blank eyes, a hand stroking his.  
“I am ready, Noora.”

**2**. 

“Hello! Hi!”  
Even dishes out greetings in all directions as they enter the old shed which has been transformed into a wedding venue. He obviously knows a lot of people here, more than Isak was aware of. He thought Even knew the bride, and that he was invited because he was an acquaintance of hers. But now this feels as if it could have been Even’s own wedding. 

Isak swallows the lump in his throat. It doesn’t help, though, it feels like the lump just falls down and gets stuck in his stomach instead. There is a stinging sensation behind his eyelids. _ Pull yourself together, _ he tells himself. _ Don’t behave like a little boy, you are a grown-up. _

He looks down at the floor. The boards are broad and solid, covering the whole room, superseded by new planks when they end, with dark cracks between them, but it still feels like a sea of eternity. He takes a deep breath, trying to anchor himself to the floor, there is something safe and predictable about it. They are floorboards after all, reminding him of the attic at home, the attic which houses all the old boxes, childhood memories, books, school material, toys, Lego, clothes, sacks of clothes his mother doesn't want to give away, not her own, not his, not those of his father.

He is starting to feel dizzy, maybe the floor won’t be solid enough to bear his weight after all, maybe it is too weak and will crack beneath his feet, or devour him, creating a hole and pull him inside. This might even be the best outcome, he thinks, he regrets coming here, regrets not protesting more. He had asked if it wasn’t too early, if Even really wanted to have him come along for this, or if he just asked him because he wanted to be polite and the invitation had included a “plus one”. But Even had been beaming at him, his eyes sparkling next to Isak in the bed, clear to see even in the dim light, like dark glittering ponds of water, of course, Isak should accompany him, if he wanted to? Even wanted him to come and he would be warmly welcomed, it was an informal wedding after all, they were like that, Even said, not rigid and formal, they wanted to have a party with friends, an event for their friends just as for them, it was going to be so nice! And Isak couldn’t say no. He had swallowed his protests and doubts and just nodded along, _ okay, I’ll come. _

Isak holds Even hands tightly while taking a look around the warm room, a stark contrast to the cool fall air outside. 

The dark wooden panels on the walls are decorated with light, transparent fabrics hanging in waves down from the ceiling. The tables are placed in the farthest part of the room, a few of them perpendicular to the others to form a horseshoe. Crystal and silver are sparkling, on the white plates there are napkins formed as a tousled knot with a shiny pink apple in the middle. Apples are also scattered in the middle of the tables. The sweet flavor of apples lingers in the air.

He had been dithering whether to come here until this very morning. He didn’t know anyone here, he had complained. “Well, you know me,” Even had said and kissed him. Isak had smiled, Even had been right and Isak couldn’t argue against it. “And apart from that, we can spend the whole day and evening together,” he had added, while peppering small kisses all over his neck, following the artery from the soft spot just below his ear further down along the larynx, with his fingers stroking over the collarbone, across the skin tightened in expectation, licking his way further down. “And the night.”

Isak’s shoulders are hard and tense, lifted up towards his neck and his ears, he is going to get a backache from that. He hates this kind of events, people he doesn’t know, people who are getting together because of someone else, not because they are interested in each other. He feels like an outsider, never knowing how he should behave and what he should talk about.

Even’s hand is stroking softly over this back, on the outside of his black suit jacket. He wishes it was closer to his skin. As if he has read his thoughts, Even suddenly slips his hand under the jacket and moves up and down over the slick fabric of the shirt, before his fingers stop and nearly imperceptibly linger right under his waistband.

Isak turns towards Even and smiles at him, it feels like a cheeky smile, he must restrain himself not to grin too broadly, his face is close to cracking up with a delighted expression that doesn't belong here.

“Are you okay?” Even’s voice is low. Isak can hardly hear the words before the little puffs of breath reach his lips and spread sparks across his stomach.  
He nods. He opens his mouth to say something but he can feel something stuck in his throat, so he would have to cough before speaking, and he doesn't want that. His nose moves along Even’s face while he nods, he doesn't manage to suppress the small smile, it involuntarily spreads across his whole face while he leans against Even.

“Hi! You must be Isak!”  
A beaming man is standing just in front of them, dark lines around his eyes, the blank lips a tad too red, the green stone in his ear glittering in the light of the candles on the tables.

Isak takes the extended hand and squeezes it, hardly able to feel the long fingers around his fist because his whole body shakes nervously. The shivers have been there all the time but nearly explode in magnitude when he suddenly has to say hello, introduce himself, tell interesting things. He is going to fail, doesn't know what he should say, his mouth is locked, he swallows in a lost attempt to relax.

He feels the movement at his side, the soft drag on his other hand, a sudden breath on his cheek. “Isak, this is Eskild. We used to live together.”

Isak feels his jaws tighten, there is a prickling sensation in his stomach, not like sparkling shooting stars, but rather like a shot hitting him so hard that he starts to feel unwell. It seems as if he has lost control over his body, he might just fall down, and that would even fit perfectly here, between Even and this way too handsome man with the short red hair, the half-open linen shirt hanging loosely over the tight dark jeans which are sure to show the complete outline of his ass, unlike the washed-out gray slacks he is wearing himself, flowing comfortably from the humps and hiding everything beneath. The dark blue shirt he bought at the Dressmann store earlier this week feels too plain, too cheap, he has to withstand the urge to draw at the fabric which feels clammy on his skin, the neckline threatens to throttle him, even though he left the uppermost button open out of habit.

“Good Lord, those were the days! Even is terribly disorganized, I still don’t get how Linn and I were able to put up with his mess! And Noora, oh my god, she must have had several nervous breakdowns with all of Even’s shenanigans.” The words pour effusively out of him, he is talking with his whole body, while still holding Isak’s hand.

“Really?” Isak clears his throat.  
“Dear me, you must have noticed that by now? You know Even, don’t you? Dirty socks everywhere, not to mention those flimsy boxers he wears? And all his projects!” He lets go of his hand and holds his breast, while shaking his head. “Gosh, love is definitely blind, Even.” Eskild laughs out loud, leaning towards Even and giving him a kiss on his cheek. Even hugs him for a second, smiling. “Or maybe he just cares less about insignificant things, Eskild,” he grins.   
Eskild throws his arms around. “Insignificant? Good gracious, we could have gotten rats and scabies and bed bugs and who knows what!”   
“Don’t forget silverfish, Eskild.”

He looks at Even full of disgust. “Now you just are being nasty, Even!” he says and scrunches his wrist, moving his hands towards them. He shakes his head and looks at Isak. “Well, now you realize what you have to put up with, Isak. Just give me a call if you need help with him. You can also live with us, we have always space for someone in need. But then you HAVE to do your share of the weekly stairwell cleaning! And contribute some shampoo and soap, oh my, although Even hasn’t done this, but William, he was really nice… Goodness me, Even, have you actually seen William here?”

Eskild looks around the room. 

Even shakes his head. “I haven’t yet seen him. Is he doing well?”  
“Splendid! He is obviously nervous. But he is looking SO handsome today that I nearly got a little bit jealous. Although I guess Noora would kill me if I tried to get too close to that boy.”   
Even laughs. “She definitely would, I agree, Eskild.”   
“Or…” He bites on his lower lip and shakes his head pensively. “Isn’t Noora a pacifist?” he winks at Even.   
Even laughs out loud and looks at Isak with glittering eyes for a moment, squeezing the hand he is still holding. He hasn’t let go, Isak realizes. “I guess Noora wouldn’t give a damn about pacifism for today, if you tried to hit on William.”   
“Pffft,” Eskild snorts. “Okay, okay, I’ll hold back.”

“But it has become so nice inside in here!” Even points to the tables behind them. ”Did you and Vilde do all this?”  
Eskild lights up again. “Yeah, it was us! Vilde is so good with the flowers, I wish I was as green fingered as our Vilde, but my fingers are too big, and too pink, I guess.” He stretches them out and looks at them. “Look, my index finger is longer than the ring finger, you surely know what this means?” he asks. “And do you remember this Elias guy I was dating? He had a really big thumb and one could... feel it, to put it like that! But such fingers are no use when it comes to flower decorations and such things, I guess small female hands are way more suitable for this, actually. I am rather going to make use of my talent in other areas.” He glances around across the room while they talk. “But now I have to go, Even, I have to make sure everything is under control. It was so nice to meet you, Isak, I’ll see you later! Tuddeluu!” He flounces towards the tables, straightening some of the plates as well as adjusting the glasses and the apples.

“What a dude,” Isak mumbles.  
“Eskild is wonderful!” Even laughs.   
“Ok…” Isak feels the lump in his throat grow again. Even’s warm hand has made him forget about it for a while and it had nearly disappeared, right until Even said that Eskild was wonderful and his eyes were nearly vanishing beneath his laughing wrinkles.

Suddenly Even becomes serious in front of him. He can feel his hand on his cheek. “Isak?” Even’s eyes are glittering so close to his face.   
“Yes?” Isak doesn't manage to meet his eyes.   
“Look at me, Isak.”

Dejected he looks into the blue eyes, those blue circles with the golden rings around the pupils, a blue sea with specks of amber.   
“Are you jealous?”   
“I am not jealous!” Isak protests.   
“Are you sure?”   
“Of course, why would I be jealous? You are a grown-up man, you have a past, that you used to be together with this Eskild, is really no big deal. We all have...pasts.”   
Isak can feel Even laugh next to him. His whole body is moving, the laughter meets his lips in small warm puffs.   
“Isak. We were living together. In a shared apartment. I have never been together with Eskild.”   
“No-oh, yeah, okay.” Even’s words are sinking in while Isak is stammering his own out. His cheeks heat up. “I wouldn’t have thought so, anyway. Oh my god.”   
Even tilts his head in front of him. “Why wouldn’t you have thought so, by the way? Isn’t he handsome?”   
“Handsome? No…” He frowns and shakes his head. “Well, no, he is not quite my type.” He smiles at Even.   
“What is your type then?” Even asks with a grin.   
“My type is not that ultragay, with mascara and earrings and lipgloss. I mean, I don’t have a problem when someone does that,” he quickly adds, “but I don’t quite get why they do, I mean, can’t they go around like normal and not look so crazy?”

Even has become serious. He looks around and breathes deeply. “Remember that people are people, and people need people, and Eskild is one of the kindest and warmest people I know. I don’t know if I would be here at all today if it hadn’t been for him.” He bites on his lower lip and takes a deep breath. “Sorry, Isak. I guess this is something we should talk about later.” He swallows. “But I don’t think appearance is important. Not at all. Whether you are a guy or a girl or something else, or who you love, or whether you sit in a wheelchair or hop around like a Duracell rabbit, or whether you believe in God or Allah or science or the flying spaghetti monster, that’s not important. Not as long as you are a good person who cares for their friends.”

Isak sighs and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “It wasn’t meant like that,” he says in a low voice and clenches his teeth, he can’t start crying now, not here, even if he feels like crying, how could he have been so stupid and say something like this to Even? Even is completely right, it has no importance at all. And now he has destroyed it.

He squints his eyes shut in an attempt to keep the stinging sensation from breaking out as tears. He wants to leave, can’t stand staying here any longer, he is just going to destroy everything. “I think it will be the best if I leave,” he mumbles towards his feet, he can’t bear to look Even in the eyes and see the disappointment.

“No, you can’t run away now! You can’t just give up and go, not now!” He grips around Isak’s upper arm, uncomfortably hard, but not to hurt him, not in a threatening way. “Look around!” he insists. “Do it! Look around!” His voice is determined.

Isak does as he was told and lets his gaze move across the people around them. They have ended up in a corner of the room, so Isak has a good view of all the small groups of people who are standing there smiling, talking, laughing, touching each other, hugging, greeting. 

“Look at all the love!” Even says. “This is the main thing. We all make mistakes but we move beyond them. We can’t harp on them forever. We have to live now or never. We might get a nuclear bomb or some shit like that dropped on our heads tomorrow, so we have to live NOW!”

At the same moment they hear a glass clang. It is the toastmaster calling them to their tables. Even strokes across Isak’s back. “Come on, let’s look for our seats.” He draws Isak towards the table, before he turns around and smiles at him. “I wonder if we are seated next to each other?” he asks thoughtfully.

Isak’s pulse shoots up to one hundred and twenty. His heartbeat hammers in his ears, the sound muffling out all the other noises. 

He stops abruptly. “Seriously, Even? Sorry, I know that this is childish, but if I am not allowed to sit next to you, I will leave! I can’t do this, I just can’t!” He holds Even’s hand tight and pulls him towards the exit.

Even laughs at him. “Just kidding, Isak. Of course, we are going to sit next to each other.” He nods at the long table where the bridal couple are just taking their seat. “We are sitting here, I guess.”

Isak frowns. This is the bridal table. He had imagined that they would be sitting at one of the small side tables, maybe towards the back, in quiet and calmness. They might have held some small talk with those next to them, but otherwise they wouldn’t be noticed.

“Yeah, here we are.” Even points towards the brown pieces of bark with white letters written upon them. “This is apple bark, isn’t it?” Isak asks. “They have gone all in with the apple theme.”  
Even grins. “Yes, Eskild insisted that everything should be apples. I guess they had to find good arguments against his demands, and I’m surprised that they have been allowed to use these china soup dishes and cups instead of cutting out apples.”   
“Good arguments?” Isak is confused.   
“Well, Noora said something about them not importing those giant apples from South America. Apart from that, she did not want to throw away food just to use the skin.”   
“They could have used the apple pulp for jam or something?”   
“Oh, now you are all involved in this as well,” Even grins and draws him up to place a kiss on his neck. “Take a seat.” With a small bow he takes out the chair for Isak, and Isak sits down. He looks at the table cards with curiosity. They consist of cut-out bits of apple bark, thick chucks, cut roughly with cragged borders. “Isak Valtersen” he reads on his own, written in write. The handwriting is beautiful and even, ending each word in an upwards curl. He looks curiously at Even’s card. The handwriting is the same and the three words are written in elegant letters. He squints at the piece of bark to make out what is written under his name, there is one more line. “Best man.” He glares at Even. “Wait, you are William’s best man?”   
Even looks back at him. “Yes?”

**3.**  


“Dear William. Dear Noora. Thank you so much for letting me stand by your side, and share this day. Thank you, it’s an honor.”

He swallows and looks down at Isak. His hand has somehow ended up on his shoulder. His knuckles are white, he hopes he won’t hurt Isak, doesn't want to hurt him, but he can’t let go now. His fingers curl around the shoulder joint. Isak lifts his own hand and places it on top of Even’s. He squeezes it carefully while drawing small circles over the back of his hand with his fingertips, and looks up at Even as if telling him that it will be okay. Trying to project the fact with his whole demeanor, the look on his face softening, the fingers, the hand tightening its grip.

Even takes a deep breath and looks down at the sheet of paper in his other hand. He has written down some keywords, afraid that he might forget something although he knows that he can always say it later. Nevertheless, it feels important that he should say it now, tell it to everyone, to Noora and William, to Isak, to Eskild and all the others who are here. Many of them are friends, then there are some he hardly knows the names of, but in some way or another, they have created a joint group of friends, himself and William. “Who would have thought that,” he thinks, “about as improbable as Noora and William.” Han smiles down at Isak, Isak whom he has found on his own, but in a similar way, through the apples, the apple picking, their joint activity.

“I met William several years ago, and it was the kind of meeting where we as people just clicked. The surroundings were a lot less pleasant than here, though.” He looks around in the low barn, at eyes glittering in the light of the candles, shadows on the wall. He wonders what they may hide, but there are no big shadows here, just those that vanish when one stands up.

He takes a deep breath and jumps in. “Yes, for those of you who don’t know, those of you who perhaps didn’t know William then, we met at a place where people like us, people who are a little broken try to get mended back together. Where people like myself learn to live with the life we have been given, and perhaps learn to live with it. People like us, who a couple of years ago had decided that we did not want to live any longer.”

The room has gone quiet. The scraping of the plates has stopped, not a single whispering voice can be heard.

Isak looks up at him with an expression Even can’t interpret, is it fear, anger, disappointment, he can’t tell. His eyes are so dark, so blank, so deep. He wishes they could talk, but he knows that it isn’t possible now, not here, he is holding a speech, Isak is listening, everyone is listening, he can’t stop now. 

The grip around his hand tightens. He looks down at his hand on Isak’s shoulder, at the hand which holds his own, the fingers clasping around it, which nearly unnoticeably glide up and down along the little finger. Isak’s gaze is directed at the hands, he is focusing on the back of his hand. Isak blinks, again and again, while he tightens his chin, swallows, but keeps on holding Even’s hand.

Even feels something wet run along his nose and forces his gaze away from Isak, away from the hand. He is giving a speech, he has to be here now. “But as you can see… we thought we might as well give life another try,” he says and draws in a breath, which becomes a sniff. He manages to smile through the tears that blind him, and looks towards the bridal couple. “And when I stand here today and see the two of you, Noora and William, then we can all agree that this alone, the chance to stand here today and look at the two of you, watching you give yourselves to one another, was worth giving life a second chance!”

William looks at him. His face is red and puffy, he was crying when he held his own speech and sopped when it was Noora’s turn. Now he is covering his mouth with his hand, but Even sees a smile in his eyes, through the flowing tears.

He takes another deep breath. “Or maybe not.” He stops for a few seconds, to let some nervous laughter erupt around the room. “Maybe William completely lost the plot on that day that he reached out a hand to Noora, his polar opposite, and she took it and said YES? Or, wait, maybe it was Noora who lost her marbles?” They are laughing and it is a refreshing, joyful laughter, slightly too loud, slightly too long, but very well-received, ending in a hushed smalltalk and giggling around the tables, just like a wedding should be, Even thinks. 

He looks a Noora and William again. Noora has laid her hand on William’s shoulder and he keeps it there. They are sitting just like himself and Isak, he realizes, even if Noora’s gaze is easier to read, she is warm and supportive, she has known all this for a long time, in contrast to Isak, she doesn't get it thrown at her in a wedding speech of a wedding she reluctantly attends.

Now the thoughts are here again, the thoughts that he made Isak do something he doesn't want to, that he talked him into it, that he didn’t manage to stop, because when Even doesn't see the limit and Isak doesn't say no, then neither of them says no, and no one can stop.

He takes a deep breath, he must pull himself together and get through with it now, for William. For Noora. For Isak. For himself.

“I know that Noora disagrees and thinks I am wrong, but I think that she saved William. If it hadn’t been for her, William’s life might be very different today. Perhaps he would even not be here. Not here together with us, not as the manager of his own company, not an apple cider enthusiast on the outskirts of Oslo. Perhaps he wouldn’t have studied business in London either, and he might have done well without that, but I am sure that he would not have done so well without Noora.” Noora smiles and pokes at William when he says that.

“It was the apples that brought them together, against all odds, some might say. Apples can unite and they are a symbol for love. There are apples here in front of us today, as a symbol for this couple, maybe as a symbol for all of us. If we take apples home with us today, we can look at them tomorrow and remember the love.” He looks down at Isak and meets his eyes, smiles at him and smiles even more when Isak smiles back.

Then he continues with his speech. “An apple is also the symbol for knowledge and wisdom, and this is exactly where the big paradox comes in, the original sin. When Eve took the fruit from the tree of wisdom and gave it to Adam, she banished them from Eden, and her descendants were punished with pains of labor and subservience. There are actually two paradoxes here. For one, it was never actually named an apple, but maybe the fear of love has made it into an apple in popular faith as well as through the church? The other paradox is about subservience. To say that Noora has submitted herself to William is perhaps as close you can get to say your dying wish, I guess…”

Once again he makes the room erupt into laughter. “In addition, the apple is a symbol for harmony and peace, and this did not hit the nail on the head either, I guess.” Smilingly, he dunks down as Nora winks and grabs an apple, pretending to throw it at him. 

Then he becomes serious again. “To give someone a gift is to reach out a hand. An apple is a gift, and what Noora did when she took William into this apple business may be one of the biggest gifts a person can give, I think. For Noora and William, it became a gift filled with love and relative harmony, and probably – as far as I have checked through really thin cabin walls – passion and lust.”

“So let us now toast to the bridal couple. To William, who is one of my best friends, and to Noora, who is his best friend, and who also takes care of us all.” He lifts the thick glass filled with apple cider. 

  
The rustic glasses clang, and the room fills once more with laughter and the babble of voices. Even drops down on his chair and leans back. “Finally done,” he mumbles and turns towards Isak. The relief to be done with the speech bubbles in his stomach.

Isak squeezes his hand. “It was a wonderful speech, Even.”  
“You think so?”   
“Of course! Are you also going to hold such a speech for us?”   
Even raises his eyebrows. “For us?”

Suddenly, Isak’s chins become bright red. “Eh. At.. New Year’s Eve maybe?”  
“So you want us to go to a big event with speeches, seriously?” he grins.   
“You talked about that party Eskild usually has,” Isak mumbles and looks down.   
“And you want to go there?” Even feels that Isak’s hand has stiffened between his own fingers. “Eskild hasn’t scared you away?” he smirks.   
“Scared me away? No! You can’t scare me that easily!”   
“That’s good,” Even smiles back. Then he becomes serious. “But I have many.... issues, really,” he mutters.   
Isak tightens the grip around his hand and leans towards him. He rests his forehead against Even’s forehead, his eyes come so close, like dark wells with a shiny surface. “Everyone has issues,” he says. “And yours don’t scare me,” he whispers. 

Even feels something gurgle inside of him, soft bubbles which slowly move and grow together into something bigger in his stomach, not a giant soap bubble that will easily burst, but something more solid , something that feels permanent and real.

His lips move without a sound coming out. He smiles again, the joyful smile is spreading, it feels too large and misplaced, a grown-up man should definitely not smile like that.  
“What did you say?” Isak asks. His warm breath tickles against his lips. 

He takes a deep breath.  
He can remain silent or say it.   
He can keep standing on the edge or jump.   
He can turn back or continue.   
Han can dare or refuse.   
Han can do it or let it be.

He has a choice. He opens his mouth. He says it. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, wedding! Yay?  
But you didn't REALLY think Even and Isak would marry after just a couple of months, did you?
> 
> Within the Skam universe I find the William character very fascinating, and even more so after seeing the character in several remakes, which for me has filled out even the original character. I think my picture of William is now coloured by all these other twin characters, broadening and deepening him. In this story especialy Alexander Hardenberg, who I think is my favourite William of them all, has been an inspiration, but it is by no means necessary to have watched Druck to read this. (But then you should just accept that I may have changed the William character a bit from the original serie.)
> 
> (And if anyone is still in doubt: The first part of this chapter is neither Isak nor Even.)
> 
> This chapter was translated by Bolomapa, then severely touched by Sophia Soames/Mermaidsandmermen. I am grateful to you both!


End file.
